


The Way We Think

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Best Friends, Domestic Fluff, Gratuitous Shoulder Touching, Immediate Sappy Shit, Lawyer Castiel, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Roommates, Slow Build, Writer Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel Philosopher AU</p><p>Prosecutor Castiel Novak has been roommates with his best friend Dean since college. Their Philosophy majors have taken them in vastly different directions as individuals so why they've stayed with each other this long, who can say?<br/>Needless to say, they've been through a lot together. But some of it is about to come back to bite them in the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Think

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bamf_Castiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamf_Castiel/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Precedent;**  
>  _noun_  
>  /ˈpresəd(ə)nt/  
> 1\. A court decision that is cited as an example or analogy to resolve similar questions of law in later cases.

 

 

If you consider how they met, you could fathom the end result.  
Not taking into account external factors, the multiple variables of life in general, the states of mind they were both in, the build to the crescendo of mild classroom conversation – it makes sense.

But from where each of them stood, the other was a face in the crowd that they happened to take note of; the way you do when you nod to a person coming your direction down the sidewalk. Granted, it happened to be a recurring face – when you share a major with someone it makes sense that you’d run into them more than once.

The novel thing about Dean and Castiel, though, was that over the course of the first two years they shared at least one class together every semester. And somewhere – through distant sightings, and group projects, and classroom debates – they became fast friends. _Best_ friends. And then roommates. And they stayed roommates, after college.

Castiel doesn’t often take the time to think about why they’re still living together. Mostly because it doesn’t matter.  
They _are_. It’s not like there’s any other option that makes … sense.

His pocket buzzes.  
Castiel rubs his eyes, a futile attempt to try and unblur his vision so he can clearly read the message.

 

 **8:37pm**  
Text from Dean:  
what time you gonna be home?

 

Castiel sighs and looks at the mess of papers surrounding him.

 

 **8:39pm**  
Text sent to Dean:  
New evidence. Staying late

 

Michael had deigned to play dirty again by submitting new evidence at the last minute. Loads of it. With the trial’s wrap-up happening tomorrow, Castiel and his team were going to spend hours sorting and organizing all of it in order to compose the right response.  
It sucked to be a state prosecutor when your brother was the city’s lead private defense attorney.

This case was particularly brutal. It’s not often that one of Michael’s high-end clients does more than violate a few EPA regulations or sexually harass a secretary or two. But the defendant here is accused of violently murdering both of his business partners. He’s not looking forward to tucking himself in tonight; sure that the only thing behind his eyelids will be the defendant’s cold eyes and wide smile when he said, _"oh, but I didn't do this"_. It was saccharine and almost had Castiel walking out of the pre-trial attempts at negotiation for confession.

Cas shivers. He wonders when he’ll get used to this sort of thing. _If_ he’ll ever get used to this sort of thing. Then he worries about what it means for him either way.

**…**

His suspicions had been well founded. Michael had buried the pertinent information under mounds of useless circumstantial documentation. Trying to drown Castiel in paper was not a feasible tactic. He was too determined. Yet Michael never failed to underestimate him. And that was nearly always what led to the eldest Novak losing a case to his youngest sibling.

Castiel has no idea why or how Michael manages to consistently convince his clients that going up against the prodigy prosecutor he has for a little brother won’t be a problem. But he has yet to be denied case assignment on the basis of relation to any of the Novaks. He assumes it has a lot to do with reputation and Michael’s seniority in the legal sphere. Maybe Castiel’s relative success so early on does make Michael feel like there’s something to prove.

Likely, he’ll never know. And for now, all he cares to analyze in relation to it is the mounds of evidence foisted upon him.

**…**

By the time they finished up, they had been working for hours past when they were supposed to go home. A full day of regular work plus overtime, plus mentally preparing to wrap up the case come daylight, was not the way anyone wanted to spend a Thursday evening. Although, by the end they had worked so late it was Friday.

When the last paper had been sorted through, all the team members (professionals and interns alike) had passed out on benches and chairs and the floor.

Cas doesn’t like sleeping in his office. When he wakes, it feels lonely and quiet. More so when he sees one of the janitors working in an office across the floor. It’s strange, considering his office is full of coworkers. He stretches and shuts off the phone alarm that had woken him. He feels like he should have headed home hours ago.  
Cas rouses everyone else, sending them home for some decent rest that won’t throw their backs out. He promises to bring in donuts and coffee on Monday morning as a thank you.

**…**

It’s the heading-home part that Castiel most often stumbles over. He nearly always has a case file on him no matter where he is, but home feels safer than work, and he tries to separate the two as much as possible.

Sleeping at the office always throws him off a little. It leaves him feeling disheveled and he certainly looks it. His suit is beyond rumpled, his tie is crooked from where he’s repeatedly loosened and tugged at it over the course of the night, and he’d bet good money that there are deep shadows under his eyes. Castiel’s very expensive watch tells him it’s just past three in the morning, but he isn’t sure he can make it up the last flight of stairs to the apartment. He tries to motivate himself by considering that his case is set, now beyond rock solid thanks to some covert slips documented in the late evidence, but the steps look as vast as ever. The euphoria of victory won’t come until the sentence is set.  
There isn’t even an iota of satisfaction within him at this moment.  
He’s purely exhausted.

He takes a deep breath and that’s when he catches the scent of something.  
A dose of happiness.

The stairs become a manner of ascension rather than a means of further fatiguing himself.

  

Castiel presses the door closed behind himself with his fingertips. He bends at the waist tightly, just enough to drop his briefcase and have it hit the floor softly. He sheds his coat and lets it fall over the standing briefcase. The sweet, warm fragrance that fills his home is exactly what he needs.  
He wants to find Dean.

Quiet noises and warm, bright light filter out through the kitchen doorway into the living room and Cas shuffles towards the source.

Dean stands at the counter, facing away. His hips sway to whatever tune he’s humming lowly. His arms shift rhythmically in front of him and little puffs of flour float sporadically into view past his shoulders.

Some people are stress bakers. Dean bakes when he wants to think.

God, it smells like heaven in here; herbs, and spices, and home.  
Castiel crosses the kitchen, routinely, towards Dean. He slips his arms around Dean’s middle and sighs, hugging him from behind. He puts his forehead against the rise of Dean’s shoulder.

He can finally breathe.

The air comes easily now and he feels the tension leaving his body. Cas presses the top of his head into the back of Dean’s neck. One of Dean’s hands strays from its work to cover the hand Cas has on his stomach. Dean curls and uncurls his fingers, gently rubbing in soothing patterns.

Cas tilts his head up: head to forehead to nose dragging along smooth skin and he's sucking in small Dean-scented breaths. Dean's grip goes lax on what he's holding. The spoon clacks shortly against the side of the bowl as his other hand falls to the counter. Dean tilts his head back, curving it against Cas in reciprocation.

They stand that way for a near infinite amount of time. 

Dean picks up the spoon again, and maybe he adds something to the bowl before he continues mixing. Castiel can’t be bothered to notice. He’s so close to Dean right now. The intimacy is palpable. Dean’s gone back to singing under his breath as he stirs, and Cas possessively digs his fingers the barest bit deeper into the meat of Dean’s stomach. He’d like to be more overt, but he isn’t going to go further.  
They’re close, and they’re comfortable with each other. More than that really. But there are many things they are not.  
And factually speaking, they aren’t there yet.

He won’t kiss a line up Dean’s neck. He won’t press himself up until there is only space for the clothes between their bodies. He won’t pull Dean to his own room, nor will he climb into Dean’s bed tonight.  
Not to say that it hasn’t happened before – it had simply been platonic. Innocent sleep with the comfort of physical contact.  
And Castiel is contemplating _more_.

Boundaries melt over time. The first few were surprisingly easy, woven into the fabric of a handful of years. With them, the rest quickly evaporated. Touch is common and proximity, irrelevant.

In this moment, Castiel feels he could melt into Dean. If he let himself.

Dean’s movements have become stiffer, his upper arms tensing periodically. Cas concludes that the mixture must have turned to dough by now, and stirring it would probably be easier with freer range of motion. But he’s already allowed Dean to remove the hand he’d been using to cover Castiel’s (without protest, he might add), and he wants to be selfish right now. Dean would say something if he needed Cas to move.

Cas turns his face, dragging his lips over the fabric of Dean’s sleep shirt as he makes an effort to be audible.

“Have you been to bed?”

For a moment there’s only silence, “I had a plot bunny.”  
That’s a _“no”_ then.

“Are you _going_ to bed?”

“… maybe … I’m still working through it.”

Castiel grunts understandingly in response.

Dean seems to think about writing far more than he actually writes. Castiel finds it intriguing; the way the man parses words and whittles concepts before he can bear to make them concrete. There are a blizzard’s worth of idea-snowflakes in Dean’s head and Castiel wishes he could see them all.

“Your case is at four, right?”

Cas sighs, “Yes.”

Dean pats his hand with dough-tipped fingers, “’M not gonna make you talk about it. I was just thinking that you have time to go shower and get some real rest.”

He gives a low, disgruntled whine and Dean chuckles.

“Go on. I’ll let you sleep late and make you breakfast for lunch.”

“That’s not a bargaining chip. You were going to do that anyways.”

“Yes, but I don’t have to do it if you don’t go get into bed within the hour.”

Cas groans, and tucks his nose closer to Dean’s neck, with a final squeeze to Dean’s stomach, before he lets go and stumbles down the hall to gather his things for the shower.

**…**

There’s a distinctly unrelaxed quality about this evening’s ablutions. Castiel can't shower off the case - the ideas and arguments will wash down the drain if he lets go of them. So instead he adds another layer. He swipes up Dean's shampoo and inhales deeply as he squirts some onto his hand and begins to lather. He goes noseblind to the shampoo’s scent rather quickly but knowing that he smells like Dean is enough of a warming thought. He decides he can wait to shave until tomorrow. If he does it now, he'll have a 5-o'clock shadow by trial-time anyways.

And God forbid he look anything less than impeccable when he goes head to head with the pride and joy of the Novak clan.

Sometimes Castiel wonders what it must be like for Sam – to have a brother you look up to and admire in a degree that exceeds _respect_. Of course, Sam and Dean are an exceptional case when it comes to the depth and nature of their relationship. But the principle is still analogous: Cas doesn’t know what it is to love his brother _as_ a brother. It’s been a relationship based on admiration of all Michael’s accomplishments and the “astounding promise” which Castiel had always been silently expected to live up to. It was a lot of cold respect and hot air.

Truth be told, he may even love Sam as a brother more than he loves any of his blood relatives.

And it feels fair.

His brothers aren’t exactly the best people in the world.

Castiel thinks that Michael loves Luca (the blackest of the family’s black sheep) more than he loves Castiel.   
No, no – he’s sure of it. And the crimes Luca had committed were quite literally crimes in that they broke laws. But _at least_ Luca hadn’t _willfully left the family_.

Not that Castiel saw his actions as leaving the family. He still attended family functions and when invited, came to dinner at matriarch Naomi’s estate.  
But with the Novaks, it’s all or nothing.

And to them, Castiel had preferred to choose the nothingness of state employment.

His position as prosecutor had stemmed from his passion for philosophy. The nature of the human condition was beyond fascinating and he found philosophy to be the most satisfying method of its study. Cas had only been allowed to major in the subject because it was a good background and pre-law field of study. Law being the subject his parents wanted him to pursue, and his parents being the people to pay for his education.

Bearing that knowledge throughout his entire college career, Castiel had resented that his parents didn’t want him to become a professor, and likely wouldn’t stand for it. He was wholly dependent on their support at the time and it had taken a lot of effort to get out from under their thumbs. Dean had been a large help to him in that.

His parents’ dream at the time had been for him to use his degree to join his brothers and become a defense attorney at the family’s firm. He went along silently with their plans for as long as he saw fit. Eventually Castiel had conceded to their desires and agreed that he shouldn’t become a professor. But before his parents could breathe a sigh of relief, Castiel was applying for a position at the attorney general’s office.

Dean was there for all of it. He was there before any of it began – back when Castiel was just a disgruntled philosophy major uncertain about his future. At the time, Dean had been in a very similar boat of dreams and ambiguity. It was reassuring for them both to realize (once they’d gotten to know each other) that not everyone had it figured out. People say that you’ve got all the time in the world to decide what you want to do, or that you’ll end up changing your major multiple times, but it never feels like that. Everyone else always seems to know what’s going on.

A lot of times Castiel still feels that way; God knows that _Dean_ does.  

Dean – who had fallen in love with the subject after the very first session in his intro to philosophy course. He’d describe what it felt like when the concept clicked for him, what the build had been throughout the whole class period. The topic would come up when they lay on the floor talking for too long about nothing in particular.

“It’s _right_ for me, Cas,” he’d say with raptured tenacity. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with it, but it’s _right_.”

Castiel could fully agree that the major suited his best friend. He told him this multiple times, whenever moments of doubt struck. And strike they did. At times Dean would feel so guilty for majoring in something so inapplicable. It wouldn’t take him to law and Dean was hesitant to try and be a professor. He liked research and he loved the historical aspect of it all but research requires funding. It wasn’t exactly a support system with which he could provide for himself and Sam. Cas is sure that the only reason Dean kept his major in philosophy was because he loved it so much and because Sam actively encouraged him to stick with it.

Cas doesn’t give himself much credit but he knows he had at least a small part in keeping Dean confident in staying a philosophy major. It made Cas feel like they were on par because he relied heavily on Dean as he dealt with his family and worked to align his aspirations with the future he was on track for. Especially in their senior year, when he’d been coerced into taking an internship for his brothers.

“So you can go straight to junior associate when you graduate,” his mother had insisted. It had sounded incredibly ambitious to Cas.

It really should be stated that Castiel loves his family. He loves his brother even if it isn’t out of closeness. But he truly enjoys doing everything possible to put away the deserving assholes that Michael and his associates defend.

During his internship he’d watched Michael and Luca mutilate what little reputation the two of them had managed to garner. His older brothers had hand-in-hand walked the family’s firm into corruption by taking on cases of corporate greed. Every case began to be more prestigious than the last. Their reputation grew exponentially. It became the positive feedback loop of more fame bringing in more clients. Rarely were they the innocent kind.  
The more Castiel learned about the details of each new case, the more certain he was that he’d never be able to work for the people who hired his brothers.  

Castiel wanted justice and he was fed up with watching his wealthy family suck up more money through Michael’s clients’ wrongdoings. Michael made the room stink of corruption.

Castiel shuts off the water.

Dean would of course call him melodramatic for saying something so outlandish. But in his moment of departure, Castiel had felt that were he forced to even be in the same room as his brother any longer, he’d become physically ill.

Castiel sucks in the steam and hopes that this reminiscing will fuel him in his arguments later today. The more ferocious he is, the more convincing he will be. He slides the shower curtain to the side and steps over the edge of the tub.

As Castiel towels off, he notices Dean’s shirt hanging over one of the rungs of the towel rack. He’d brought his own sleep pants to change into, thinking the warmth of his room wouldn't call for more than that. But honestly, how can Castiel resist when it’s _right there_? He picks the shirt up and inhales: it doesn’t smell dirty, but it has a distinct Dean-scent to it. It slips over his shoulders easily.

 

A puff of humid air follows him out of the bathroom. Cas walks back down the hallway, not sure if he really wants to go to bed quite yet. There’s still a light on in the kitchen. He hadn’t really expected Dean to have gone to bed but he knows it would have been a good thing.

His still stands at the counter, but if his flour-covered hands are anything to go by, he’s shaping the dough now. In addition to singing and hip-swaying, Dean has begun to roll and wiggle his shoulders along with the music he’s making.

Loathe to part with the sight before him, Cas hovers in the doorway of the kitchen.

The tiny red light on the stove goes off with a ding to signal that it’s ready for use. Dean reaches over to turn off the timer he sets to remind himself that the oven is on and warming. Cas admires his seamless movements.

“Bed.” Dean commands without turning or pausing his motions.

Cas smiles a bit, “Good night, Dean,” he sing-songs.

“Night, Cas,” he calls back.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Exits are to your left, your right, and your rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always, very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.


End file.
